


The First Night

by David___Y



Series: A Lifetime [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dinner, F/M, First Dates, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Jon Snow is Not a Stark, Jon Snow is Not a Targaryen, POV Jon Snow, Weirwood(s), frey pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28017774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/David___Y/pseuds/David___Y
Summary: Jon was not a very social person, so it came as a surprise to himself, his mother and his friends at work when he told them he was going to restaurant with someone. He'd met her during his morning jog, a redhead with blue eyes, three years his junior, who'd just moved to the area. This dinner had been planned to the last detail over the last week. It was the first night of what would turn into a lifetime.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: A Lifetime [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052186
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	The First Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hello.
> 
> This is something I started writing in the middle of the night one day because I was in a creative rut on the big piece of writing I'm working on at the moment. When I opened the new document, it was all completely made off the top of my head. Please excuse any grammar or spelling mistakes, I am the only person who has read this.
> 
> That big piece of writing I have been working on for six months. It will be a rewrite of the last two seasons of the TV show, so you have that to look forward to should you decide my works are worth your time once you've finsihed this here story, which will be the first piece of a series I plan on writing simply so I can take a breather from the monster that the rewrite has become.
> 
> In summary this will be a series of single chapter stories that will be a mash up, frankenstein, hoge podge, mixture of my own ideas of what the Song of Ice & Fire world would look like in a modern setting alongside ideas from other modern setting stories I've read.
> 
> While this will be primarily based on the books, I will throw in some elements from the show which is why the TV show is tagged; you'll pick up at least one in this part. 
> 
> So read on, if you so wish, give the kudos thingy and comment about how messy my prose is because I know I'm not the best at it. It will only help me to improve, both going forward with this series and on that rewrite I mentioned earlier.

It was the first night of what would turn into a lifetime. Of course, Jon Snow didn't know that, as he turned the key to his front door counter-clockwise, securing his semi-detached house. It was a modest thing, built out of red-brown bricks with a tiled roof covered in snow. Under the white blanket lying in front of the house was what should have been a good patch of grass, but with the weather, it was more like to be mud.

He payed for the house half from money he'd saved up from wokring for the police force of his small home burrow, that sat in the south-east of the city Winterfell. The other half he paid for with the generousity of his uni professor – Aemon Targaryen – who'd taught Jon everything he needed to know about law & criminology. He'd died of old age four years back and left some of his savings to his favourite student; eventhough you weren't susposed to have favourites.

The funeral had been a high profile affair, much to Jon's disdain. Aemon was the Grand Uncle of the then Prime Minister of the Crownlands, Rhaegar Targaryen, who'd been voted back into office a second time soon afterwards. No doubt the sob stories the press published helped with that. Jon went in his best suit with his then partner, a red head called Ygritte he had met on the force.

It seemed Aemon had liked & respected Jon so much that he left a specific request for Jon to say something at the ceremony. He'd stepped up to the lecturn in front of a crowd of people where Ygritte was the only person he knew. The Great Sept of Baelor echoed with the sound of Jon's voice for ten minutes as he talked mostly about his many interactions with the deceased over the three years in which he earned his degree.

With the press in attention, photos were taken and interviews were performed. While Jon had been sly enough to avoid a microphone, that didn't stop his picture getting inside a newspaper and having his face broadcast over the evening television. That night in his hotel room, his mother had called him to say, “Jon, you're on TV,” as if it were the best thing in the world and as if Jon didn't already know.

Jon was not a very social person. The only people he really spoke to were co-workers – because he spent his days with them – and his mother Lyanna – because she was the only family who lived in the same city. Though, he did make an effort to keep in touch with two old friends from Castle Black University who both lived down in The Reach. Samwell Tarly, called 'Sam' by friends, had been his room mate. The pair of them were probably the closest any two people had been in their own dorm block. Sam had been taking a degree in History, so could he name all the battles fought by Aegon the Conquerer or all the structures built by Brandon the Builder. The other friend was called Satin Flowers. He & Jon would always choose each other as a partner should a piece of work require it. A pretty boy with a voice like a bird song and curly hair the shade of raven feathers, anyone who met Satin would have been surprised to learn he was taking the same degree as Jon with the same aspiration of becoming a police officer.

Because of Jon's lack social activity, it came as a surprise to himself, his mother and his friends at work when he told them he was going to restaurant with someone. He'd met her during his morning jog. Every morning he went through the local park, around the market place just west of it and back the same way to his house. Beginning at five and returning home an hour afterward, the jogs allowed Jon time to himself before he had to be at the police station, his shift starting at seven o'clock.

The woman he'd met had been a redhead with blue eyes, three years his junior, who'd just moved to the area. She'd been sitting on a park bench a dark winter morning, wrapped in artifcial fur with her bright pink nose – which was only that colour because of the cold – buried in a book, the lamp post beside the bench lighting the page. The park had been a white blanket of snow, lit up by a bright, low hanging moon.

Jon was not surprised to encounter someone on his morning jog, far from it. There were twenty-four hour stores on the market place that were used by people returning home from night shifts. Jon was the sort of person to say 'good morning' and most people were polite enough to reply with the same or similar. One of the stores in particular opened at half five. Jon would pass it on his return journey and was on first name basis with the store owner, Old Nan, who was more middle aged then old. It opened everyday, without fail, expect the one time when Nan had to leave town for a week to help her son start a buisness in the North's port city – White Harbour. Jon & Nan were so well accquainted, in fact, that Nan jokingly asked Jon to keep an eye on the shop while she was away.

This redhead was no different to those returning from their night shifts. The first time he saw her was making the return journey through the park. He said his typical 'good morning' and she was gracious enough to reply in a voice that sounded as soft as wolf fur: Jon knowing the texture from his time in the Haunted Forest as a volunteer ranger. He spent a year up there after university before reutning to Winterfell. He'd said 'good morning' the next day and the next day and the next day, before deciding – after two weeks of finding the same redhead on same the park bench, gradually making her way through the same book – to stop his jog in order to have a proper conversation.

“Why do I find you on the same part bench every morning?” had been the first thing he'd said. She'd looked up from the book, to answer, meeting his dark grey eyes with her own deep blue ones.

“I think it's simple enough to figure out that I like reading outside in the early morning,”she'd replied. “I've managed to figure out you like jogging through the park every morning without having to ask, so why must you?” The reply sounded accusatory and had made Jon turn a brighter red than he already was. Even at the ripe old age of twenty eight, Jon found himself easy to blush out of embarassment.

“If you're annoyed I interruppted your reading, I'm sorry,” Jon had said, sounding like he felt (an absolute tit), scrachting the back of his head. “I'll be on my way.”

That had made her giggle guiltily.

“I'm sorry,” she said, half-remorseful, half-amused. “I didn't mean to make you feel guilty. It's just, I like teasing. My brother always go bright as a tomatoe when I do.”

“Looks like it works on more than just your brothers,” Jon replied, playing along. “What's your name, anyway?”

“Sansa. Your's?”

“Jon. Did you just move here? I haven't seen you around before two weeks ago.”

“I did. I recently returned from King's Landing where I had university and a few years working. The city seemed a bit too big for me, so moving home was a breath of fresh air.”

“I've spent a total of four days in King's Landing during my lifetime and decided that was enough for me.”

“Why did you go?”

“My uni professor's funeral.” Sansa frowned placing a bookmark in her book before she placed it beside her on the bench. It was at that point Jon was sure this conversation would be a fruitful one.

“That's sad to hear.”

“I felt the same when I got the news, but he lived into his ninties, so its not as sad you might think. He lived a good, long life.”

Her smile returned. “That's good.”

Jon nodded shortly and checked his watch. “Well, I have to be moving on. I've got work at seven and I need to have shower before heading out.”

“What do you do for work?”

“Police officer.”

“I'll be sure not to get caught anything doing illegal, lest I ruin your second impression of me.”

Jon chuckled. “I turst you won't. What do you do for work?”

“I'm a civil servant for the Minister for Social Relations.The job's fine by it's the travel I don't like. It's a train journey to the inner city and back for me everyday.”

“I only have a five minute drive from my house to the local station.”

“Then I envy you. While there are plenty of people who are well mannered & well groomed on the morning train, there are plenty of others in cheap hoodies that look like they've spent the night downing alcohol and sniffing drugs.”

“And it's those people I have to deal with at the beginning of each of my shifts.,” Jon told her with a bit of frustation, memories of dealing with the sort Sansa described coming to mind. “Maybe I'll nip to train station to clear them out for you before you get there.”

“Please.”

Jon pulled his gloves tight and said, “It was nice talking. Perhaps I'll stop again tomorrow,” smiling softly.

“I wouldn't mind if you did,” Sansa replied, smiling softly. The pair had given each other a wave and Jon resumed his morning jog. That had been two months ago. Over those two months they had exchanged a decent amount.

Sansa's father was Eddard Stark, called 'Ned' by close friends and red top tabloids, one of the top men working for the North's Prime Minister, Stannis Baratheon. She was following her father into politics but only accepted help in the form of university tuition and living costs being paid for – nothing else. Sansa had gotten her own job in a small department with plans to advance by herself. Before moving back to the North, she'd worked as a personal assistant for a woman named Cersei Lannister at the Westerland Embassy in King's Landing. In Sansa's own words, Lannister had been 'an insufferable cunt.' She had also been in a relationship with Cersei's son, Joffrey. It hadn't been very serious and she broke it off the moment his more violent tendencies started to appear.

Jon had told Sansa of his mother, how she'd been his only parent growing up because his father had died while on tour in the Red Waste of Essos when Jon was still growing in his mother's belly. He told of his relationship with Ygritte, how'd they been together for two years before she had decided to move north to work as a full time ranger in the Haunted Forest. The break up had been mutal and on good terms. Jon was comfortable in Winterfell working for the force and he was not going to stop Ygritte getting on with her own life.

Now, Jon made his way to his car sitting in the drive: a second hand Manderly Motor's W500 that had been eight years old when he brought it five years ago. A silver mermaid holding a trident was the manufacturer's badge. It was a reliable little hatchback with four doors & a decently sized boot. It had only ever needed to be taken to the garage once, excluding MOTs, perfect for Jon's daily life of travelling to and from the station and visiting his mother – who lived ten minutes away – on the odd day off.

The roof and windows were already clear of snow, so he did not need to clear them with a brush. Jon had only been home a half hour to dress and clean himself up. He wore a dark blue, duffle coat. Underneath it were good black trousers held up by a black leather belt, a white shirt with the top two buttons undone and a jacket the same shade as his trousers. In-between his shirt and jacket he felt the heathly weight of his conceal-carry: a Mott 18 he jokingly called Longclaw because a small metal charm in the shape of a wolf he had hanging off the bottom of grip. The charm was given to him by his mother as a brithday gift: wolves & dogs were his favourite animals. He never went anywhere without his conceal-carry: as a police officer, he may need a firearm at hand at moments notice.

Normally he would finish his shift at seven in the evening, but he'd convinced Tormund to stay on an hour more than he usually would, covering Jon's last few jobs of the day to make this evening's plans possible. Jon & Sansa both had early starts to their days, getting to bed late wouldn't bode well for either of them, so they had both decided that they should have dinner and be home as early as possbile.

A key left the pocket of his coat. It slid into the keyhole of the driver side door then twsited to prompt the indicater lights to flash on for a two second interval. The driver side door lock poped open. Once inside the car, Jon turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life after the _vrrt_ , _vrrt_ , _vrrt_ of the starter motor. The radio came to life as well, tuned to a rock station it hadn't left since Jon had tuned the radio on the day he brought the car. The clutch dipped, the gear stick shifted into 'reverse' and Jon backed his car onto the road – swinging right – after chekcing the blindspots either side of the car. Snow crunched underneath the tires, sounding muffled from inside the car and quite compared to engine. Once on the road, he shifted into first, found the bite and set off.

This dinner had been planned to the last detail over the last week. Jon & Sansa had agreed that the pair of them would make their own way to the restaurant, not for any other reason than both being perfecticly capable of doing so. They'd also agreed to split the bill, but only to pay for their own dishs and drinks. He had been the same with Ygritte. Jon was not to sort to be overly gentleman-like – insisting to pick her up and take her home and pay exactly half the bill or pay the bill entirely – should the woman he was courting wish to be independent. It was a principal taught to him by his mother.

The restaurant they'd chosen was called 'The Weirwood,' named for the tree growing in the beer garden. The tree's presence gave drunkards an excuse to say they were talking to the gods when they were really necking pints. The Weirwood was close to both their houses and the best reviewed restaurant in their local area; independently owned by a local resident. Jon had been a number of times and had never been given a reason to complain.

The outside was all white pianted cobblestone framed by well varnished, oaken timber. Above the door and on a tall sign pole was a gothic rendition of the restaurant's namesake, accompanied by sharp lettering that told passers-by the restaurant's name. The Weirwood sat across the road from a small park with a duck pond that was iced over most of the year and in which no one ever saw ducks. It was nearly at the heart of the burrow: south of the market place, park and both Jon & Sansa's homes.

Jon pulled into the modestly sized car park left of the restaurant. Behind the building was a waist high wooden fence, behind which he saw the tall white tree with blood red leaves surrounded by several bench-tables. A number of the bench-tables were occupied by patrons, gripping glasses of different shapes. The sky was getting dark, so the reastaurant's internal, yellow light shone clearly as it bled outside through the back windows.

Leaning against the back of her car – make Webber, model Flame, the make badge a spider on a cobweb – was the woman who he'd come to meet, arms crossed and face pink. Sansa was wore the same coat she wore when sitting on the park bench, red hair emerging from underneath a white, knitted beanie & flowing all the way to her waist. _She looks wonderful_ , Jon thought as he parked in the free space beside her car. As he stepped out of his car, a blast of cold air hitting him square in the face, Sansa's voice passed over the roof of her own car, dressed in a joking tone, “I beat you here.”

“Har, bloodly, har,” Jon replied sarcastically, looking her dead in the eye as he closed his car door and twisted the key in its lock. “I suppose you'll be thinking of some penalty for me being the second to arrive.”

“I think a wound to your pride is penalty enough,” she said as Jon walked out between the two cars, snow crucnghing beneath his feet.

“Then consider my pride sufficently wounded.” He offered her his left arm and the pair of them walked at a moderate pace round to the front door, their arms linked. “How was another day in Social Relations?”

“Painful. The minister's son came in today and I noticed at least ten glances directed at me that probably were accomanpied by him imagining how I looked without clothes on,” Sansa replied. “And I'm pretty sure he's going to start working in the department soon.”

“Did you tell the minister about these glances?”

Sansa snorted mockingly. “I'm half convinced he encourages it.”

“Terrible precedent to set,” Jon commented bluntly. Sansa hummed, agreeing.

A porch sat at the front of the restaurant where the hostess had her desk, populated by a desk lamp, large diary and standard landline phone. She was a comely woman; brown hair, brown eyes and smartly dressed. She wore a black skirt that that hung loose but close to her legs and a white shirt, the undone top buttons showing only her collar. Her smile was small but certainly noticable. “How may I help the pair of you?” the hostess asked.

“Reservation for two, under the name 'Snow,'” Jon replied clearly. The hostess' eyes flicked over the diary infront of her and she placed a finger where the reservation had been noted down.

“Wonderful!” The hostess clapped once. “Now, before you take a seat, I have to remind you that smoking should be kept outside in the beer garden,” she explained, picking up two menus from a compartment in her desk, “and we have a strict no firearms policy. If you are carrying, I must ask you present your firearm and I will have them securely stored until you leave.” Jon knew about the policy. Most places were happy enough to let you keep hold of a conceal-carry, so long as you don't get it out unnecessarily, but for as long as he lived in the area, The Weirwood didn't tolerate firearms, save keeping them in storage while the carrier ate. None the less, Jon had kept the handgun's shoulder holster hung underneath his jacket, he'd rather have it put in storage while he ate than leave it at home.

He undid the fasterns of his coat, removing it and politely asking the hostess to hold it before undoning the buttons of his jacket, removing that as well, so he could pull his shoulder holster off and place it on the desk. To his surprise, putting his jacket back on and folding his coat over his arm, Sansa undid her coat to pull her own conceal-carry from an inside coat pocket.

“Mott 18,” Jon pointed out, as the hostess placed the two handguns in separate lock boxes and noted down the finer details of their driver's licences to pair with the boxes.

“The seven years I spent in King's Landing made me more cautious,” Sansa explained.

“If the pair of you would follow me,” the hostess cut in.

The pair was led from the porch to a table. The room was lit by overhead tungstung bulbs, shining brightly as they hung from the ceiling from white cables routed alongside the wooden beams holding up the roof. There were also fake gas lamps, hanging from the brick pillars spaced throughout the dinning area, with white covers hiding their light bulds. The bar was long, made of darkly varnished wood and accessed from the kitchen which took up most of the back wall. Pumps lined the back edge of the bar, each paired with a different lable displaying what alcoholic beverage pulling the pump would yield. The door to the beer garden sat in-between the kitchen & a table, left and further back than the bar. Chairs were well made oak good oak – the tables also – cushioned on the back rest and seat. The pair of them sat, taking off their coats and hanging them on the back of their chairs. Sansa stuffed her beanie into a coat pock as the hostess handed them their menus then walked away.

As Sansa began to flick through her menu, Jon said, “I didn't take you for one to carry.”

“Like I said,” Sansa replied without taking her eyes from the menu, “King's Landing made me cautious. I was ten minutes away from where the Blackfyres decided to gun down a branch of the Iron Bank when it happened. Once I saved up a bit after starting my job as Lannister's P.A., I brought that handgun and keep it with me whenever I can.” Sansa closed her menu. “I would rather our main topic of conversation wouldn't be why we carry firearms. What do you want to talk about instead?”

Jon rubbed his chin, thinking, feeling the stubble that he would need to cut freshly tomorrow morning before going to work. After a moment, he answered, “What do you think looks good on the menu?”

Sansa smiled. “It's all the usual. Steak. Bangers & mash. Riverland Trout and various dornish spiced dishes. The Frey Pie might be good, I've never heard of it before.”

“I'm having the standard medium rare, but the rest I've had coming in the past and all of them are good, though, there is a running joke amoung the regular customers that the meat in the Frey Pie is more than just pork, if you catch my meaning.”

Sansa chuckled, placing the menu on the table. “I think I do.”

With the menu out of the way, Jon was finally able to appreciate the top Sansa was wearing: a loose fiting, white blouse with embroidered designs of wolves running around her shoulders. Her red hair contrasted wonderfully with it. The loose nature of the fabric left it mostly to the imagination as to what her figure looked like. That didn't bother Jon. While he certainly found a womanly shape attractive, he didn't think his relationship with Sansa would reach the point where that was improtant any time soon. It was then that a waiter came over, notepad in hand, ready to take their orders.

“What can I get for you two to drink?” he asked. Jon gestured and Sansa nodded, accepting the offer to go first.

“I'll have a small glass of lemonade to begin with,” Sansa answered. “Do you have a bottle of the Imp's Delight?”

The waiter wrote down the lemonade while squinting, tapped his pen against the notepad and replied, “I think so.”

“If you do, I'll have a small glass of it with my meal, if not, a small glass of Dornish red.”

“I'll tell the barman to take a look in the cellar.” The waiter turned to Jon. “And you ser?”

“Half a Duskendale,” Jon told him.

“Righty-O,” the waiter said, nodding and writing down Jon's drink. “I'll be over with those drinks if a jiffy.” The waiter walked away and the pair of them returned their attention to each other.

“I think we should discuss what we want to get out of this relationship,” Jon told her bluntly.

“As do I,” Sansa agreed, nodding, hands placed on top of each other on the table. “Do you want to start?”

Jon nodded. “If we commit to this relationship, I would want to go all the way. Marriage, staying together until one of us goes to bed one night to not wake up and everything in-between.”

“I want the same.”

“I wouldn't want anything to get in the way of career prospects for either us. While I would like children, if you'd rather not have them to focus more on your career, I would not force you into it.”

Sansa smiled. “Thank you, but have no worry on that regard. I do want children.”

The waiter came over with the ordered drinks balenced on a tray. Carefully, he placed Sansa's lemonade and Jon's Duskendale on the table then held the tray underneath his arm, readying his notepad to take down more orders. “We do have a bottle of the Imp's Delight,” the waiter told Sansa. “Have the pair of you decided on food?”

“I think I'll be having Frey pie,” Sansa answered. The waiter smirked as he wrote down the order, shaking his head slightly.

“So the jokes haven't put you off it?”

“So long as they're just jokes.”

“They are.”

“Good.”

The waiter looked to Jon. “And you'll be having?”

“I think I'll stick with medium rare steak,” Jon told him.

The waiter wrote, said, “Righty-O,” softly, then walked off to enter the kitchen.

“Back to what we were talking about,” Sansa said, “I do want children. Should we get that far in a relationship, I can easily see having them with you, though I think we can agree that children are a long way off.”

“We can,” Jon replied, picking up his glass to take a short sip. The ale was light brown & tasted bitter, just the way he liked it. “I would say that right now our main concern will be spending time with each other. We will need to organise days where we do.”

Sansa took a sip from her own drink, smiled then swallowed. “After tonight, what do you want to do next? Only ever eating dinner with each other will be nice, but it will get repetative.”

“Perhaps we could go for a walk together. Every so often I head up to the Wolfswood for a weekend.”

“If we do, then it have to be just one day. The minister doesn't take kindly to anyone taking long periods of time off.”

“Aren't you given holiday allowance?”

“We are, it's just that Mister Bolton is every fickle. He doens't like to see the department working below capacity.”

“That's fair enough, but you really can't properly appreicate the Wolfswood without at least a full weekend. You don't have to if you don't want to, I just recommend it over spending a single day.”

“Well, if you say so, then maybe having the minister frown at me more than usual will be worth it.” Jon chuckled at the comment.

They continued to talk, switching from one topic to the other as the conversation naturally progressed, gradually getting through their drinks. There was little in the way of compliments, mainly just the two of them discussing what they wanted out of their time should they decide to continue pursuing a future together.

Their meals came, the pair of them ate. The steak Jon had was juicy & tender, the outside a gorgeous shade of brown, the inside the right amount of pink. It was coupled with chips fired in vegetable oil – something that was detailed on the menu – and a fried egg placed on top. Sansa tucked into her pie which sat amoung roasted vegetables. Steaming brown gravey spilled out from the crust, soaking the other contents of the plate in the flavour of the pie. From the smile her lips curled into when chewing, Jon could tell she enjoyed it. The wine she ordered was dark red, almost the same shade as the leaves on the tree outside. Curious as to how it tasted, Sansa allowed him a small sip. The taste was sharp & fruity. He could tell the alcohol content was high for a wine: no wonder why she had just as small glass. By the time his plate was empty, the only remants being a few crumbs of potatoe siting in a mixture of gease from the meat and the left over egg yoke, Jon felt sufficiently full. That and his wanting to avoid washing away the savory aftertaste of his steak with something sweet, led him to skip dessert. Sansa had a slice of lemon cake with a second lemonade and that was it for her. Jon ordered a cup of tea to drink while Sansa ate dessert.

The bill came on a white saucer. The strip of reciept paper showed that the steak costed ten stags, the Duskendale three and the cup of tea one. The Frey pie had costed as much as the steak, the two lemonades a total of four stags, the wine and the lemon cake each the same. The pair pulled out their purses and fished out the appropriate number of coins for the food they consumed. Jon felt obliged to give Sansa a groat for the sip of wine. She said that he really didn't have to but accepted the polite gesture considering they'd agreed to split the bill, paying only for what they ate & drank each. On the way out they were returned their Mott 18s. The night was truly dark now. In the sky were a few stars, the moon shone in the shape of a sickle blade. They returned to the their cars with their arms linked.

“If we stay a night in the Wolfswood, you'll see the sky as it should be,” Jon told Sansa warmly. “You'll want to live out there simply for the view.”

“I can't wait,” Sansa said. They parted to enter their separate cars. Jon looked to Sansa before she got inside.

“See you tomorrow morning,” he said, smiling softly.

“See you tomorrow,” Sansa replied, smiling softly.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I was part way through watching 'The Thick of It' when I started writing this story. That is why Sansa works in the Department of Social Relations.
> 
> Seeing as I haven't planned alot of what will happen in the series, pay attention to small details. I'm planting seeds I can use late for what might become very important in future stories.


End file.
